Never ending night
by Marilena
Summary: Yuffie, Vincent, and their Goodbye.


Disclaimer: FF7 is the property of Square-Enix.

A/N: Yeah, I know. I took this down and reposted it. I decided not to change anything.

Never-ending night

Red is the color of passion. They say it ignites a very intense reaction from the human body. Roses can be red. Blood is red. So is your cloak. It is the first thing someone notices about you, along with your eyes. But these are not visible yet, not from where you are standing. We are in the outskirts of Wutai. You were always tall, but now you look even taller with the sun dying in a deep pink dress with orange streaks, its faint light cascading down your figure in weird angles and making your hair shine unnaturally bright. Your shadow reminds me of your past in a way, a big, ugly lurker behind your back. It's funny, really, how I focus on that tiny detail and not on your eyes. I guess it is because I try to avoid them. The day when Yuffie Kisaragi, The Greatest Ninja of Them All, finally cowered before someone has arrived. Feel free to spread the word.

You approach slowly, tentatively, and my heart thumps angrily in my chest, like it wants to jump out of my throat and desperately run to you. But it can't. I can't. The Kickass Ninja is getting married tomorrow. The Kickass ninja of Old has responsibilities, and ruling and a lot of growing up to do all of a sudden- and I can't stand how your footsteps seem to drag and the way you look lonely, proud and timid at the same time. You are a man of contradictions, and you're here to say goodbye. To give me your best wishes. Pffft, like it matters. I know this will end with both of us getting hurt for good. God, Vincent, I– I gave you hope, as I gave it to myself too. I was so stupid. I ignored the fact that there are some things I could never –_ever_- escape from, although I've always been good at running away. Humph, what a nice time I choose to do self-criticism. It's as if your house is getting burnt, and you're pondering whether to cook beef or chicken in the fire.

You are closer now. I can read whatever trace of a facial expression you have generously let slip. I squeeze the flower in my palm, and I do so hard, like I want to suck the life out of it and out of the man who gave it to me in some pretentious display of affection, the man to whom I'd give myself tomorrow- I don't want to think about this now. I have a sticky green liquid on my hand. It reminds me of beetle juice. Utterly and completely disgusting.

You, Mr. Red, have finally reached my side. You are here, real and solid as much as you're untouchable. I wish I could talk, but my throat feels like it was violently pulled a few centimeters back, and there's only a huge knot in its stead. Vincent, don't kneel, _please_, and don't try to look indifferent, or even whole. I can see your right hand twitching, you know. Your red eyes are veiled, you filthy hypocrite. Are you trying to spare me from the pain? Too late. Filthy old wonderful hypocrite, that's what you are. Your skin looks so white, so perfect I want to touch it. I wonder how it would feel under my fingertips. Would your cheek be soft or stubbly, dry or fresh? It looks delicious, I have to say. What am I thinking, just _what the hell am I thinking_ at a time like this?

Oh, no. Could you step away a little? You smell so uniquely; it's like someone stuck the most beautiful flower bouquet under my nose. A little more bitter, perhaps. And without the sneezing.

I have no time to prepare myself, as you reach out and cup my cheek, but I wonder how you can look so goddamn calm, when I just want to howl like a crazed chocobo with dyspepsia. I'm so lame.

How- how could you love me? I ask you that, in a voice that's not entirely recognizable. It is an ancient ritual of women dancing in the moonlight; it is an old wicked thing that I can't put my finger on. We're not the first ones, Vincent, neither the last. You know that, don't you? Of course you do, you've been slapped before, while this is all painfully foreign to me – like a shameless, metal stick probing your mind and soul.

You never answered my question.

You caress my cheek, but your stance is rigid and you no longer look at me in the eye. I try not to think about _that_ either. I broke you down. You take a small package out of the folds of your cloak; your golden gauntlet looks deadly as ever. The package is wrapped carefully with plain, beige linen. My face has the weirdest sensation and it takes me a while to realize what it is. You weren't caressing me, you were wiping away tears. I didn't mean to do that, I'm sorry. The hot rivulets on my skin dried from your breath on my face, leaving a sinful chilliness behind. That explains the sensation.

My hand is shaking wildly and your present almost falls to the dark soil beneath us. But I grind my teeth at the last moment, and blink forcefully to clear my vision. I can do this. Yes, I can, I can, I can. I am Yuffie, after all, the Greatest Ninja to walk the Earth, and we, Kisaragis, have always been strong. (We had to)

I manage to unfold the linen, even with wooden fingers. You stand still, and I prepare myself for the _strike_. I suppose we must look like a timeless drama performance now, with the tall Wutaian grass and the spare rocks as our humble setting. No music, no birds, no blossoms, unless you count the pulp that stains my hand. I look down. The _strike_.

Your present for my marriage is a memory. An old, worn ninja star and some white rose petals. That ninja star; I remember. I gave it to you once, years ago, saying jokingly that you needed something 'ninja' to keep you from being mopey when I wasn't there to annoy you into some form of reaction. And the 'Single White Rose of Wutai'… Oh, Vincent! I can hear the breeze of the wind between the branches of the trees, and I can feel your eyes inside me. You're burning me. I want to cry, I want to scream, I want to kick you, I want to hug you, I want to kiss you…

My lower lip is trembling, I know. I can't stop it. So, so unfair; it can't end like this…

You get up abruptly. A huge weight lands on the pieces of my heart, crushing them, as I watch you go away and retreat in your loneliness, your never-ending night. It can't end like this! Not when I don't know if your cheek is smooth or stubbly, dry or fresh like a waterfall.

I bolt upright at once, and I run like I've run before. Your strides are too big; having legs as long as yours should be strictly prohibited. Stop, damn it, just _stop_. I finally catch up with you and turn you around with effort. I'm not even crying anymore, simply choking.

So, this is our Goodbye… I will always remember your face as it is now; I think it really sums up your personality, half-illuminated and completely broken. Your eyes are red in places where they shouldn't be. Your mouth is a thin line.

_I reach for you I want to kiss you please let me don't send me away don't leave me to a life I don't want it's not my fault please forgive me I love you_

You remain passive like a statue that has endured a million raindrops on its face. You close the distance between us, but not in the way I crave for. Your lips are warm, and faintly wet on my brow.

You left your mark on me, Vincent.

I want more. I want sin. I want _you_.

All I get is an old ninja star and a handful of white petals, as I watch your form fade in the distance, and I stay there immobile, even long after the sun has died peacefully.


End file.
